I push the screen away, easing down beside her once more as a sliver of fear shoots up my spine. I can’t wake her up yet. Not until I know what to say. Not until I know how to say it. I’ll find the words to make her understand I never meant to hurt her, never meant to scare her. I’ll show her I only ever chased her because I was looking for something that might hurt LaRoux Industries, not her. I was chasing down a woman I believed did deserve it, who held secrets—except if Antje Towers never used Sofia’s ID to run, then she did what she promised all along. She waited for her discharge and went to live out her life in quiet, in peace, away from technology. Away from the kind of world that holds LaRoux…and people like me.
I lie there beside Sofia in the dark, turning over explanations in my head, planning speeches, honing my words so the first few will stop her long enough to hear me out. She has to hear me—even if she never forgives me, she has to believe that the Knave isn’t coming for her anymore. She has to know that she’s safe from me, if nothing else. My thoughts run in tighter and tighter circles, until I fall into a restless sleep.
When I wake, the blankets beside me are cold, and Sofia’s gone. I scramble upright, my heart rate accelerating as I swing around to look for her, clambering to my knees.
She stands nearby, and she’s dressed, and she’s holding my lapscreen.
I forgot to close it down before I fell asleep.
Lit ghostly pale by its light, she’s letting it dangle from one hand, so I can see the dossier I pulled up using her genetag number. I see her ID picture, her real ID picture. I see the folder of files on her father; criminal records, medical reports, employment records. Autopsy.
My heart clenches, mind shutting down. I have to find an excuse, tell her the truth, say something. But I just freeze.
Then her gaze drops, and I see what lies at her feet. My book. My ancient, priceless copy of Alice in Wonderland. My lucky charm, my token from the life I used to live. It lies open, and there, sitting on top of it, is the final nail in my coffin. A single playing card, from the old-fashioned deck my brother and I used to use.
My heart’s hammering. My mouth is dry.
It’s the jack of hearts.
The knave.
“Was all this just a game?” I expected coldness, emptiness—instead Sofia’s voice is bright and hot with fear, with betrayal. In this moment she can’t put up a front. “Was any of it real?”
My thoughts are still stuck, the torrent of everything I should say building up like water behind a dam. “Sofia—” I stammer.
With that, she’s moving, dropping the lapscreen, backing away from me toward the door.
I want to reach out and grab her, make her stay, make her listen. If I could just make her listen. But I can’t force her to stay. I can’t chase her, after all of this. Not anymore. “Please wait,” I manage instead. “Please—let me—”
She pauses in the doorway just long enough to glance back at me. “You come looking for me again,” she says tightly, “and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
I stare at her from where I kneel, my words lost.
And then she’s gone.
Their words fly through our world like waves, and we learn to catch hold of them and ride the messages they send to one another. The casualty letters from their wars are easiest to follow, leading us to grief and anger, emotions so strong we can cling to them and experience their world just a breath longer, the strength of their feelings tangible through the invisible walls between our universe and theirs.
There is nothing remarkable about the one that leads us to a little cottage surrounded by flowers. There is no reason to linger, nothing that should make us pause. These humans’ grief is no different from that of any other we have tasted.
And yet we find we can stay, drawn inward, pulled through the fields and up the hilltops and to a tree in whose branches huddles a little boy, clutching a notebook to his chest. He keeps his words on paper, so we cannot read them through their hypernet, but for just an instant we can feel them in his soul.
Then the poetry fades away, and we’re left waiting for the next wave of words to carry us closer to understanding.
JUST KEEP MOVING.
The words echo over and over in my mind, drowning out my other thoughts, keeping time with my footsteps. The background patchwork of noise from street vendors and traffic fades into a dull, throbbing hum beneath the roaring in my ears. I want to run, to put as much distance between me and the Knave of Hearts as I can—but running draws too much attention. I can’t look over my shoulder, I can’t duck low. I have to walk like I belong here. Pilfer a hat from this newsstand, a pair of smog glasses from that one, hide my face from any cameras LRI might be monitoring with facial recognition. I have to look like I haven’t a care in the world. If it weren’t for the steady staccato of words marching through my head like a drumbeat, I’m not sure I could.
First I need to get to my old apartment before he does. Get the gun, get my father’s picture. If I don’t get them now, I can never risk it again. I can’t think past today to the Daedalus—there is no Daedalus anymore, not with Gideon—but I have to get my things. It’s all I know. And after that, to my ID guy in the southern district for a new name, a new ident chip. Gideon—the Knave—knows Alexis. And he knows Bianca Reine—the White Queen. God, he gave me that name. I’m an idiot.